Peregrine, I've become a skeleton of my former self. Is there any use in begging for tenderness? Hanging in suspense while a world marches on. Even an intercessor turns away from this Hairless body.
Peregrine, I've become a shadow of my former self. Withering in winter and as this sun sets I still have a fear that is tumbling And tumbling in my stomach. And as this disease devours my body This fear consumes my soul.